


To Chronicle Small Beer

by puckling



Category: 1776 (1972)
Genre: Bad Beer, Drunkenness, Founding Fathers, Gen, the Declaration of Independence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-09
Updated: 2010-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:38:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckling/pseuds/puckling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Jefferson was a man of many skills. Brewing was not one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Chronicle Small Beer

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to the ever wonderful Leupagus, who not only prompted this but looked it over. Any and all remaining errors are my own, but I blame her entirely for the concept.

"Two days, Franklin, we only have two days and I have given him more than enough time," Adams said as he opened the door to Jefferson's quarters. He stepped inside, only to have his nostrils positively assaulted. "What in the nine hells is that?"

Jefferson, quill in hand, looked up from the paper on his desk.

"Smells like a tavern. A particularly disreputable one," Franklin said, following Adams in. "And I ought to know."

After Franklin mentioned it, Adams noticed Jefferson's quarters did rather smell like Sam's malthouse. If his cousin had a habit of stabling cattle in there, that was. Adams walked over to the kegs sitting in the corner of the room and tapped one with his cane. There was only a slight echo, so the keg was still at least three quarters full.

"Martha brought some of my beer when she came to visit. It helps me write," Jefferson said, picking up a pewter mug sitting on his desk and taking a sip.

"You should fire your supplier, Jefferson," Adams said, turning towards the man, who raised his eyebrow. "This swill isn't fit to drink."

"Now John, I think that's a bit harsh," Franklin said. "To each his own I suppose."

"I brew it myself," Jefferson said, placing his quill down and leaning back in his chair.

"I see," Adams said. He would have said more, but there was only two days until Congress wanted the Declaration and the last thing he needed to deal with was another case of Jefferson's writer's block.

"Do you mind if I..." Franklin said, gesturing towards the keg with a mug already in his hand.

"Please," Jefferson said, picking his quill back up again. He dipped it in his inkwell and then paused. "Feel free to help yourself as well, Mr. Adams."

"Oh I couldn't," Adams replied. He watched as ink beaded at the very tip of Jefferson's quill. "I wouldn't want to deprive you."

Adams was very proud of himself for not screaming in frustration as Jefferson put the damn thing back down without even touching it to paper. "Oh, I insist."

"Come now John, they still drink beer in Boston don't they?" Franklin had already drawn a mug and was sipping from it cautiously. "It's not that bad anyway; it numbs the tongue so you can't taste it after a few sips."

"Mr. Adams?" Jefferson asked again, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. Adams knew a challenge when he saw one.

"Very well," he snapped, grabbing one of the mugs Jefferson had scattered around his room. The man was a complete pig, honestly.

At least he could hear Jefferson's quill scratching against paper, he consoled himself as he half filled a mug. A Declaration would be worth the lost sense of taste.

He turned around and glared at Jefferson as he brought his mug up and took a tiny sip. It tasted just as if someone had soaked moldy bread in sour vinegar. "That," Adams said, pursing his lips, "might be the foulest thing I have ever put in my mouth." Jefferson didn't look up from his paper but he smiled.

"Packs quiet a punch though," Franklin said. Because he was Franklin he had already finished his first mug and was starting on a second.

"You'll have a wicked headache tomorrow morning," Adams told him.

"But that, my friend, is tomorrow," Franklin said cheerfully. Adams moved to put his mug down but Jefferson circled his quill, indicating that he should keep drinking.

"This is your revenge on me for making you write the Declaration, isn't it?" Adams asked, taking another sip.

"Perhaps," Jefferson replied.

Three hours later there was no writing going on whatsoever but Franklin was loudly enthusing about a woman of his acquaintance in Allentown who had a most talent tongue. "She was very good with her words, if you know what I mean," he said, winking at Jefferson.

Adams blinked at him owlishly before catching on and asking, "Good God man, do you think of nothing else?"

"Beer, sometimes," Franklin said, drawing himself another mug.

"That brew," Adams said, turning and poking Jefferson, who was lying on the bed besides him, "that brew is damn strong."

"Mmmmmmmm," Jefferson said. He didn't even bother to open his eyes.

Adams sighed and laid down besides him. They were perpendicular on the bed and while Adams idly wished for a pillow, that would have meant leaning over Jefferson. Too much work. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't fall onto Jefferson in the process.

The last thing Adams heard before he drifted off was Franklin babbling to himself. "You know Tom, I know a few tavern owners who probably wouldn't mind selling-Tom? Tom, the keg's empty, can I start a new one? Tom? John? John are you awake? John? Well, if we're going to sleep, I'm headed back to my place for a night cap. Good night!"

Then the sweet arms of Morpheus (and the extra yeasty swill Jefferson tried to pass off as beer) claimed him.


End file.
